


In The Views of Us

by ImberNox



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, and most relationships other than usuk is vague or fleeting, basically the whole world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberNox/pseuds/ImberNox
Summary: This is the story of America and England's relationship throughout history reasonably inclusive of canon and tailored to my interpretation of Anglo-American relations resulting from my personal studies of the history, as well as world history. This addresses many controversial opinions regarding usuk, such as incest and age and other unhealthy possibilities, in a pro-usuk manner.This will also contain other controversial world events and how Anglo-American relations impacted them, dealing with relationships involving America and England outside of usuk, such as asakiku and rusame and fruk, none in a negative manner.Yes, there will likely be smut, but written exclusively between America and England in later chapters.





	1. 1607 -

In 1607, America first met England. Of course, neither of them knew what to call each other at that point. But there was some strong pull that England was used to and America so unfamiliar. England had not come with his first men a year earlier in their great failures at surviving in the New World. In fact, retrospectively, it might have been England’s mere presence that allowed the permanent establishment of Jamestown.

America was standing in a small field, more so a clearing, when England and he crossed paths. There was silence as either stared at the other. America was barely taller than the untrimmed grasses at that time; he donned the skins and the feathers that his dear, Native people had clothed him in. England was young himself, but he stood like a man in woven fabrics of more detailed garments.

America was, in fact, the first to move from the trance under which both had found themselves. He shuffled to fully face England, as he had earlier been angled just away, just looking over his shoulder. It was like a full strength then took hold as they completely faced one another. America brought his hands together, and started to wiggle his toes. The rabbit he was earlier trying to approach was forgotten.

England looked like America could not describe. His eyes were wide, and his hair kept blowing into his face from the spring winds, but he was not blinking. He stood stiff, his arms by his sides, and he looked down at America with the face of a man who had discovered his dog to, really, be a cat.

And then America backed away. He left England standing there and returned to his native peoples, for he was confused why another man had his pale skin. While young, America knew his difference from his people. His pale skin was a keen topic when regarding him, and he asked them, for the first time, where he had come from.

“We do not know,” the elder had said. “You came to us a while ago. From nowhere, and then you never grew.”

But in the next season, America grew two years in physical appearance. His people murmured to themselves, not unkindly, and made sure the boy had enough food to sustain his growth, for suddenly America’s appetite was much more ravenous than the near-nothing meals he had been eating previously.

America and England crossed paths again, and America was always the first to back away, then leave. England always regarded him with the same expression, and America could not tell how he felt about it.

Another month passed, and England boarded a ship to sail away from America’s home. America could not watch him go, but he could feel it. He felt a strange feeling in his chest ever since he first saw England, or simply the blonde man.

At first, when meeting each other’s eyes, there had been a sudden desire to stand beside the man. When they were fully turned to each other, there had been an indescribable urge to take the man’s hand. When walking away, there had been great struggle in each step, as if there was something not letting him go. And in every moment that passed without the man’s presence, America felt restless. Knowing of his departure, America sat alone in the forest and clutched his chest with his small hands, distracting himself by counting the walnuts that had fallen early from their trees.

In the following years, America met others with similar tugs as England: others with pale skin speaking strange tongues with items that America had never known prior. There was Finland, a man that America had proudly marched back to his people before realizing both Finland and his people’s discontents. Their meetings were private after that. Finland cared for him sweetly with treats. Sweden, Finland’s friend, as Finland had put it, was not bad either. 

And there were people of the white race that did not speak like Finland, Sweden, or the Englishmen either. Finland had explained to him that they were former citizens of other countries: Poland, Prussian territories, Denmark, and some others America quickly forgot the names of within the mad rush.

America met the Netherlands in 1624 once Finland and Sweden left due to the Netherlands’ request, sixteen years after England left. On board was the personification of the Netherlands, an austere man that America met and barely glanced at before backing away. Watching from a distance, he saw the Netherlands build settlements stronger than Finland and Sweden’s or England’s.

And then, after what seemed an eternity, America saw England once more. Back with an army, America hid with the natives in the forest away from the danger as England openly challenged the Netherlands for possession of the lands where the Netherlands had settled. Barely a shot was fired, and the Netherlands left.

But America’s problems were only slightly alleviated. Where was once a scary man who chased away Finland, there was now a very interesting man who frightened America just from his presence. It was not bad or intentionally scary, America knew, but there was such a pull between them and such an unusual reaction from the English nation.

They met face-to-face again in an odd turn of events, where Finland and France were present alongside England. Faced with three European nations, America did his best to ignore them in favor of his land and people. But apparently they thought of him as something special and desirable.

It was then that France offered food that smelled better than anything America could remember, and England offered an unusually odd show of personality. Finland, in the background, remained quiet.

At first, the pure, exotic scent of the French food attracted America to France. And the Frenchman’s cooing words were similar to ones he had heard from many others, and America trusted things he was familiar with.

But, then, there was sniffling from England. No more than twenty paces further was England, who had taken to kneeling amongst the grasses with tears streaming down his face and hands covering the origin of those tears. The tug was still there.

America walked over to England, and very carefully put a hand on the sobbing nation’s arm. France and Finland watched quietly. England froze, and, then, agonizingly lifted his gaze to meet America’s. It was all silent for a small bit, and Finland and France departed in respect to the connection between the bodies of the New and Old Worlds.

“Are you well?” America asked, for he had learned many languages from the new settlers.

England swallowed, and straightened a tiny bit in his sitting posture. “Yes,” and he trailed off. “Yes, I am fine,” he confirmed.

America did not know what to say under England’s intense stare.

“I could call you big brother?” America offered, seeing as England was here when the others had left.

England opened his mouth, but did nothing but stutter. “I do not find that necessary,” he stammered. “Just England would do perfectly well, yes, I do believe so.”  
“Oh,” America said. He lowered his gaze. He wrung his hands. He looked back up to England.

England offered a smile, but he looked nervous. “We will do great together, America,” he promised. America considered this, and liked this very much. England stood up, but not without picking up America to give him height. “Shall we?”

America laughed loudly in the giggles that children make. “Yes!” he exclaimed in agreement, latching onto England as the nation swung him to sit on England’s shoulders. 

From there, with England supporting him, the world was much easier to be in.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

There were times when both England and America had to learn things about each other. England was the first to learn. America had fallen asleep to a fairytale one afternoon while on a walk. But the growls of a wildcat startled England and woke America. While trying to find a decent-sized stick, England had grown frantic when America wandered up to the dangerous cat. Halfway through a warning yell, America patted the kitty on its head, and it was sent off. England dropped the stick he had found.

America fell asleep in his arms once more not four minutes later.

Then, America learned. England insisted on America living with him in what England determined to be a “proper settlement”, to eat “proper food”, to learn his “proper manners”, and to act as a “proper young man”.

America missed his people dearly, but he felt such a tug to England that he found himself unable to deny the nation’s biddings, and he complied with a good amount of will and happiness. His people were saddened by his departure, but seeing his physical body grow once more, many of them conceded that he belonged more with the white settlers than with them. America would feel the sting of their words later, but not now. Now, he took it as a blessing to live with England as he and England pleased.

England had to leave rather quickly, and left a saddened America behind.

But four years later, and America was standing at the docks to welcome England’s ship to port. Before anything, before absolutely anything, England came to America and welcomed his young charge up and into his arms. Reunited, they buried their faces in the crook of each other’s necks, whispering welcomes and gratefulness. 

England took him home, and England cooked them a meal. America ate it happily and chewed through its texture. Then, England, wearied from his journey, and America, wearied from waiting, fell into a deep, uninterrupted nap on the bed with America half-sprawled on top of England.

At waking, England departed for “business of nations”, as he had put it. America remained home, reading and studying from the things England had brought along for him. In a month’s time, England departed once more with the same number of tears as the last. Repeat.


	2. 1733-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I changed this chapter completely. Whoops.

England had finally decided to visit. After nearly eighty years, England had returned. America was both pleased and displeased. He had grown, not physically, but mentally in the years with England gone. The last time he had seen England was in 1651, when England had noticed that too many of the “European bastards” had taken an interest in the colony that England had managed to sire. And so, with a well-aimed threat at specifically France on a personal note, England had visited America to deliver, in person, the Navigation Acts.

“These are designed to strengthen the British Empire and all of its bodies and peoples,” England had explained. “These will keep those wretched countries out of our lands and seas, so that you may remain untouched.”

America had agreed, but, driven by curiosity, he had sought out some contact behind England’s back. It was not that he wanted to disobey England, but he felt some drastic pull to meet other nations. He had not, however, and his people only traded with other people under the protection of the other countries. 

The only country America had met was France, in the same year as the Navigation Acts: 1651. Flaunting his feud with England, France had decided to pay America a visit. 

It was an odd meeting for the both of them. America had not expected France to be quite so lavish in all aspects, and France had not expected America to be quite so plain in nearly all aspects. Nevertheless, they had gotten along quite well. America had enjoyed his meals, and France had enjoyed getting to know the colonists who were a mix of all heritages, unlike France’s more homogeneous colony further north.

It was at one point that America had asked, “Why does England hate you?”

France had laughed. “Parce que cher Angleterre n’a pas un bon goût,” France had replied.

America cocked his head. Why France suddenly felt a desire to converse in French, when their entire visit had been in English, escaped him. But, he played along.

“Pourquoi détestez-vous l’Angleterre?” America asked.

France glanced at America, and seemed to understand America’s desire for a serious answer. He looked away to think shortly. « Je ne déteste pas l’Angleterre, » France hummed. « Je déteste ses humeurs et ses royales. C’est une chose politique et économique, n’est-ce pas ? Angleterre est impoli et ses royales ne sont pas bonnes. »

America was quiet. « Allez-vous combattre avec l’Angleterre bientôt ? »

« Ah, Amerique, » France sighed dramatically. « Je combats avec l’Angleterre tous les temps. Ça n’a pas d’importance si je lui déteste ou il me déteste. Chaque jour, nous combattons. Chaque année, nous combattons. Demandez à l’Angleterre pour la réponse. Peut-être il sait. »

It was not until Queen Anne’s War half a century later that America had fully understood what France had been explaining to him. England and France fought out of force of habit, not necessarily force of hatred. As with the rest of Europe. America supposed that, after being alive for so long, small things started to hold less weight.

But, over the course of the years, England had increasingly tried to become close with America. With Queen Anne’s War out of the way, England was relatively secure in strengthening influence over the American colonies. It was small things. A lot were beneficial to America, even though some were a tad restricting. The Woolen Act, in 1699, had been a bit annoying. The Hat Act last year, in ’32, was a tad irritating. But there had been other acts that had strengthened business in the colonies and protected their goods, such as the securing of colonial tobacco.

America could have only suspected that England would be visiting with another paper, just like in 1651. Nevertheless, he had been excited to see England after so long.  
“You haven’t grown at all,” England’s first words had been, and they had stung.

America stood in the foyer, dressed as nicely as he could, and suddenly realized just how small he felt. He was still only just taller than England’s waist. England had not grown either, but America supposed that was not the point.

“Hi, England,” America greeted nonetheless.

England continued to look at him for a bit, but then smiled. “It’s good to see you, America.” England walked forward, opening his arms. America fell between them. “It’s good to see you haven’t changed.”

And America was immediately reassured. 

“What took you so long?” America teased. “I was waiting forever!”

England chuckled, running his fingers through America’s locks of hair. “I didn’t mean to keep you so long; I apologize. Just with the Spanish Succession, it was a tad busy there for a bit. And my plans were scheduled for two years ago, but the poor Jenkins bloke had his incident, and Spain and I haven’t been so agreeable of late.”

America frowned. “But I thought Queen Anne’s War ended decades ago.”

“That’s not how issues between nations work, America,” England reminded him. “With nations, our disagreements last longer than decades and into the centuries.”

“Is it so hard to get along?” America asked, sulking. “France said that it’s just because of politics. So why do you actually hate each other if it’s just your rulers fighting?”

England pulled back instantly. His gaze was sharp and disapproving. “You’ve been talking with the French frog?”

America could not make eye contact. He stared at his shoes. “Just once or twice. That’s it, I promise.”

“When?” America shuffled his feet. “America, when?”

“After the Navigation Acts,” America answered. “And once more at the turn of the century.”

“What did he say?” England asked. When America chewed his lip, not responding, England placed his hands on America’s shoulder, gently shaking him. “America, what did he say to you?”

“Nothing really,” America answered. “I asked him why you two always fought, and he said it was mostly just politics. The second time we didn’t talk about anything, I promise. He just stayed at our place and cooked a bit and bettered my French skills.”

“Bastard,” England muttered. “I don’t want you to listen to him, America. If any other nation approaches you, I don’t want you to listen. Ever. They’re a bunch of thieving, deceiving, lying, filthy bastards.”

America nodded mutely.

“Good lad,” England praised. “Now. How about I make you lunch while the servants see to my luggage? I’ve brought you plenty new books to read.”

“Yes, England,” America answered, and followed his governing nation into the kitchen.

... ... ... ... ...

“You know,” England began, as he had finished eating, “I’ve brought some new papers that relate to the colonies.”

America chewed his food slower. Once he had swallowed, he looked up at England. “What kind of papers?”

England smiled. “Tax papers, unfortunately. They’re dreadful things, aren’t they? But the British Empire is anticipating being drawn into another war with tensions high around Austria and Prussia. My king has decided that it would be wise to have the money beforehand rather than scrambling for it later.

“It’s not a huge tax, I promise. Just something on sugars. We’ve called it the Molasses Act.”

America wrinkled his nose. “Sugars?” he echoed. “But it’s so easy to get sugars from the Caribbean.”

“The Caribbean is conquered by Spain for now,” England reminded him. “Of all nations, except perhaps France, Spain is one I definitely don’t want getting acquainted with you.”

America took another bite of his food. “What’s Spain like?” he asked.

England’s expression instantly darkened. “He’s a complete buffoon, that’s what. He used to be a rather friendly bloke: always cheery and whatnot. His Queen Isabel started the bulk of his exploration in the New World, and he hasn’t been quite the same since, at least not to me. He gets along marvelously with France and Prussia still, though they have their spats.

England leaned back a bit. “He has a charge, just like I have you.”

America set down his fork instantly. “Really?” he chirped. “Which one?”

England hummed. “South Italy: Romano.”

“Oh,” America mumbled. He had expected to hear Mexico or Cuba or Peru or another New World colony. South Italy was the last name he had expected. “What’s Romano like?”  
England snorted. “He’s a right brat. Spain has completely spoiled him and overlooked every single one of Romano’s ill manners. And he’s disrespectful: always cursing out Spain and anyone else who comes near.”

“Oh,” America mumbled. “And. What’s Spain like with Romano?”

England remained silent for a bit. And for a longer bit, England was silent still. America was about to prompt England, but England then sighed. “How is Spain to Romano,” England mulled. “I would not know how to explain it. Part of me suspects Spain is masochistic for how doting he is on Romano despite Romano’s attitude.”

“But is he kind?” America asked.

England glanced at America. “Yes, I would say so. Only to Romano.” England’s gaze drifted away and his eyebrows furrowed. “Only to Romano,” England repeated.

America did not understand England’s quietude. He pushed the plate closer to England for an excuse to distract the matter. “I’m finished, England,” he announced.

England looked back at him, a smile reappearing on his face. “Ah, have you? Was it good enough?”

America nodded. “Yep!”

England laughed, and picked up the plates from the table to wash in the bin. “Why don’t you run up to my room and grab some books? See how far you can read before I’m done picking up.”

“Alright!” America called, rushing out of the room after pushing in his chair.

England’s room was next to America’s, and, swinging inside, America spotted a satchel of books laying on England’s bed. He pulled out a newly-bound book and kicked off his shoes before reclining back on England’s bed to begin reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *author’s note: I am incorrectly using Angleterre as masculine due to England’s gender/sex. In French, all countries are feminine. But I figured that would be kinda awkward to use the pronoun relating to ‘she’ rather than ‘he’ when referring to male nations. However, for France, I will refer to him as ‘la’ and not ‘le’ or ‘lui’ as with other male nations.*
> 
> French:  
> Parce que cher Angleterre n'a pas un bon gout - Because England doesn't have good taste
> 
> Pourquoi detestez-vous l'Angleterre - Why do you hate England?
> 
> Je deteste ses humeurs et ses royales. C'est une chose politique et economique, n'est-ce pas? Angleterre est impoli et ses royales ne sont pas bonnes. - I hate his manners (moods) and his royalty. It's political and economic thing, isn't it? England is impolite and his royals aren't so good.
> 
> Allez-vous combattre ave l'Angleterre bientot? - Are you going to fight with England soon?
> 
> Je combats avec l'Angleterre tous les temps. Ca n'a pas d'importance si je lui deteste ou il me deteste. Chaque jour, nous combattons. Chaque annee, nous combattons. Demandez a l'Angleterre pour la response. Peut-etre il sait. - I fight with England all the time. It's not important whether I hate him or not or whether he hates me or not. Each day, we fight. Every year, we fight. Ask England for the answer. Maybe he knows.


	3. Just a Small Note on the Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think it's best if you read this before continuing.

Just a small reminder: this fic is just one idea of how I view America and England's relationship over time.

In all honestly, I view different parts of history in so many different ways. The further into this fic I get, I'll probably write things in a way I don't completely agree with just because of the way other parts have been developed. For example, I usually view the American Revolutionary War as America wanting to stand equal to England and wanting to see the rest of this world. I wish I could emphasize this in the fic, but I don't think that's going to happen. I think this fic will see an adaptation of the Revolutionary War as something with America being rather bitter and resentful towards England, and I apologize (mostly because I don't really view the American Revolution in that way from the viewpoint of Hetalia's America).

There are other things that I'm still trying to decide how to portray once the fic reaches the World Wars. I like to imagine America throwing himself into the First World War in a similar way as the second musical presented to the fandom: just reaching the age of responsibility and taking on the world with encouragement from different sides. I don't think it will end up like that in this fic. For the longest time, when I was first studying the very early 1900s, around Cleveland and Teddy Roosevelt's presidencies, I saw England as trying to seduce America onto his side. Now, I don't see that as much as I see England maturing past bitterness over the past (because I view England as nearly college age during America's Revolution, and therefore not fully mature enough to be able to forgive at that point: hence the War of 1812). So I'm not fully sure how I'm going to portray certain aspects, but I'm trying to include as many elements of history that I possibly can, and, then, I'll see where the characters take me.

I'm writing the chapter with the French and Indian War today, so I imagine that it will be up either later tonight or tomorrow.

Thank you, from Imber.


	4. 1758-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The French and Indian War

1758

 

“America? There is a visitor for you.”

“I’m coming downstairs!” America called back.

In the next thirty years, England had involved himself in yet another two wars. King George’s War (‘The Austrian Succession, America,’ England had insisted in his letters) had lasted for a small bit, and the War of Jenkins’ Ear was so trifling that America could barely keep up through England’s winding words. 

Now, England was extending the wars of Europe even further into the western hemisphere and into the Colonies. America had heard the people criticizing the war, and he had seen enough soldiers abandoning their lines to walk back to their homes. America had not dared raise his voice against them like the English soldiers, but neither did he raise his voice against England’s sudden involvement with him.

The French and Indian War was being fought between the English and the French, the Native Americans split on either side of the war depending on who was doing better. No Native American tribe wanted to be caught on the losing side, and America sympathized with them. He had tried to approach some of the tribes allied with the French, a notable one being the Algonquin, but had been spurned as another white interloper. It had hurt a bit. America had returned home in tears. He had not expected his former people to so harshly view him after he had accepted England’s culture and people.

America was in Saratoga, in New York, and he was visiting the various tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy to secure ties of diplomacy between them and England. Two nights prior, he had spent time with those from the Ottawa. They had been kinder, but still made sure to remind America that he was of no familial relation to them, or to any native peoples.

He ran down the stairs, excited to hear news of the war, hoping that it would be news that meant England was safe or that the English and Colonials were succeeding finally.  
But standing just through the doorway was France.

“Ah,” France smiled, taking off his tricorn hat. The feather was magnificently white. “America, it is good to see you.”

America hesitated on the top stair. He took a step down. “France,” he greeted out of habit. “We’re at war.”

France blinked, and the happiness there dimmed.

America was confused, and very angry at the nation who had been fighting England tooth and nail for so long. He remembered France telling him that there was no true hatred in his feelings towards England. But America did not understand why France then insisted on fighting endlessly with England.

“What are you doing here?” America asked, frowning. Then, he was scowling. “Why are you fighting England again? Why are you fighting me again? I am England’s, and he is mine. You fight England, and you insult me. Why are you here in enemy territory?”

France frowned likewise. “I am not at war with you, America.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” America demanded. “You’re fighting England. I am English America!”

France laughed without humor. “No one stays around that island for very long.”

America stared. “What?”

“Sirs,” the maid interrupted. She was standing in the entrance of the greeting room. “Would you like to sit down? Have some tea?”

America stayed quiet, and France took advantage of the silence to response. “Yes, of course, my dear. Tea would be lovely. America?”

“That’s fine,” America responded, but did not realize he was saying such. 

Without feeling the urge, without thinking, he began to move down the steps in a daze. His approach towards France was made with unsure footsteps, sometimes lingering on one step for a few seconds longer than necessary before moving to the next. 

When in the sitting room, France relaxed back into the chair while America remained perched on the edge. 

“What are you doing here?” America asked again.

France glanced at him, and then towards the walkway to the kitchen. “Vous ne savez pas?” he asked.

America frowned. The maid could be trusted, and he was quite sure that she could understand French anyways. But, he humored the visiting nation. “Non,” he answered. “Je ne sais pas.”

France hummed, and stayed quiet until the maid returned with both of their teas. Accepting his cup, he turned to her. “My dear,” he spoke softly. “Would you mind giving us some privacy during our meeting?”

The maid nodded. “Yes, of course, sirs.” And she left.

France took a sip of his tea and shifted his head to the left for a bit, thinking. Then, he set his tea down. “Not as good as I was hoping,” he commented. Then, he took another sip. America’s let his cool on the table.

« C’est evident, n’est-ce pas ? » France asked.

“What is?” America asked.

France hummed a bit. “I am not fighting with you, America. I am fighting with England only.”

“I don’t understand how that’s possible,” America confessed.

France nodded. “Of course you do not.”

America felt a bit insulted. “I am a part of England,” he insisted. “We are together.”

“For now,” France restated.

“Forever,” America corrected.

There was a silence as France watched America with an indescribable expression. After a few moments, America began wriggling in his seat, feeling the intensity of the look France was sending him. He did not like the surety with which France addressed his break-up with England, nor did he understand where the surety came from. England was wonderful, and America liked him very much. And America knew that England loved him just the same. There was no reason for them to not be together.

“Are you going to try to separate us?” America blurted, now afraid.

France laughed. “I have no need,” he assured, but America was certainly not assured. “England will do it himself, or you will. There is no need to hurry anything along when it is inevitable. You are young, America. When you grow up, you’ll realize just how infinite the patience of a nation can be. England is yet younger than I am, and he is just a touch more rash than I. But I suppose that’s just his personality, as well. The way he copes.”

“The way he copes?” America echoed.

France nodded, locking eyes with America. America sat upright, wanting and unable to break eye contact. “The way he copes,” France repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for the wait.
> 
> I will post this and the next chapter on the same date, so excuse its brevity.
> 
> Enjoy!


	5. 1763-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-Revolutionary events

1763

 

England won the war. He had come personally to give the news to America, what with a hug that did not end for hours and a visit that lasted for months in one of the longest, and happiest, times of America’s existence yet.

He had come bearing injuries. He had refused all of America’s offers to help with those injuries. He had told America that there was no need for America to acquaint himself with injuries when England was protecting him. He had come with new declarations. He had delivered the Proclamation of 1763. 

America’s people had reacted sourly.

Two years later, the Stamp Act was delivered and passed, angering offices for press and law and business everywhere. At the same time, the Quartering Act was passed. America watched as families in Boston and New York were forced to accept soldiers into their homes despite the security risks.

America was in Virginia, partaking in the meeting for the Virginia Resolutions in the House of Burgesses, all just to describe how to combat the effects of the Stamp Act.

When England wrote, America did not know how to write back and answered with short letters with little information. The Circular Letter went out, urging the colonial boycott of English goods, and America received a letter from England reprimanding his attendance at the House of Burgesses for the Resolutions. He was firmly told to cut out any boyish games. America did not know how to respond and did not.

Perhaps because America had not responded, perhaps because his people were a bit fierce in their antagony, England had his Parliament repeal the Stamp Act. But then, to save face, Parliament made into effect the Townshend Acts.

America walked through the streets of Boston, of New York, of Jamestown and Philadelphia and Richmond, hearing all of the complaints of his people. The acts were repealed, and then replaced. 

America did not like the game England was playing.

… … … … …

1770

 

America was there for the Boston Uprising. He heard the one of the assaulting crowd members to fire, and he watched as the soldiers did just that. When he read the newspaper the following morning and saw the words ‘Boston Massacre’, he felt a bit sick.

He sat in the courthouse as John Adams defending, quite fiercely, the soldiers who were accused of murder. He was silently relieved when most were pardoned.

He heard the word ‘loyalist’ being traded around the town of Boston just as equally as the word ‘rebel’ and ‘tories’ and ‘patriots’. He knew where he stood: trying to fix the ties that were a bit frayed with England. He wanted England back, and he hated the silence until England would hear of this trial. He hated the thought of what England would think of him: a bystander of the event and a witness that withheld his testimony from being presented due to him never admitting to hearing such calls.

Sure enough, when England heard the news, there was no letter. Six months later, England showed up on America’s doorstep. At first, America went to greet him warmly, until he noticed the scowl on England’s face.

“England,” he greeted with weak cheer.

“America,” England greeted, as if he was the personification of winter, not England.

America had listened for many hours, over the course of many days, as England reprimanded him for allowing ‘his’ people to act in the manner that they were acting. He listened to England reprimand him for allowing the Sons and Daughters of Liberty to be formed. He listened to things that were, but America did not realize that they were, England’s insecurities.

When England left in 1772, America kept in his home for a few months, thinking over England’s words and how to make England happy with America once again.

The following year, the Boston Tea Party occurred, urged by Samuel Adams. America knew that John Adams was aghast, as was he. America did not dare open the letter that England sent him after hearing the news. 

In 1774, America heard news of American militias being formed across the colonies to protect colonists from the British soldiers. America signed up with several of them, keeping himself primarily stationed in the North from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts.

In 1775, he finally opened a letter from England for the first time in nearly two years. England would arrive in a month to meet with him. America’s hands had been shaking when he read the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of interpretations of America's feelings in the Revolutionary War. I literally did not include a single interpretation that I actually agree with in this. I like the idea of a more Loyalist America, however. Nations are alive for so long that I feel it's so unlikely that they fully agree, ever, with the fleeting anger of a part of the people. However, I also enjoy a Patriot America, which is what is seen more in Hima's canon.
> 
> Oh well. Have a repressed America for now. His distance from the situation comes from a lack of understanding as well as overall reluctance towards all sides. His anger is more likely to come AFTER fighting English/British forces. 
> 
> I will probably write a separate fic later that focuses solely on the Revolution where I might make America more of a Patriot than in this fic.


	6. 1776-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America gives England the Declaration of his people

America had avoided England for the full year. When the Declaration of Independence had been signed, America had been there to see. Benjamin Franklin had wrapped an arm around America’s shoulders and offered America a copy of the document. He was told to deliver the proclamation to England.

When England opened the door, the door of America’s Boston residence, England had been shaking. He was furious; any could see the bags sunken deep under his eyes and the eyebrows furrowed into one and his lips twisted into an angry grimace and the stiff tension in his shoulders. England’s one arm jumped out at America, and his hand caught a fistful of America’s shirt. America was yanked a full step towards England. 

America realized that he, himself, had grown. He and England were level.

England opened his mouth.

America reached into his pocket and withdrew the document. England took it when offered.

England turned his back and unfurled the rolled paper. As he read, America stood silently in the threshold of the residence, inches separating the two. England hands were twisting into the parchment. America perceived it as anger and fury. All England felt was agony. The hands were shaking; they were sweating and staining the parchment. England had gotten paler.

England swallowed. He lowered the parchment, clutched in fists, and subtly wet his cracked lips. England was staring at the place where America’s chest was.

“Get out,” England finally said. His voice was not there; it was only a very broken whisper.

America hesitated, not expecting England’s reaction. He had expected a yell, some shouting: a fight, perhaps.

England ripped the paper in two. The noise seemed, to both of them, a crack in the very surface of the earth. It stretched down the Atlantic Ocean.  
America could not bear the tension, and quickly turned to leave.

England grabbed at his shirt again, holding him tightly. America looked back at England. England’s eyes were shining and his veins were reddening. America knew what people looked before they cried, and England’s face was so familiar while being so incredibly unfamiliar. America set his jaw. He remembered the anger of his people, of some of them, of the patriots, and ripped himself free of England’s hold. He walked down the street.

England was left standing in the threshold with two pieces of the same paper, tears running down his face now that America had left, and suddenly aware of how desperate of a situation he was in. His eyes danced around. His hands clenched until the wrinkles in the paper he held would never be smooth. Turning, he swiped the paintings off of the walls and he slammed the door shut. He walked into the kitchen and overturned the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh

**Author's Note:**

> All storyline, interpretation, and writing belong to me.
> 
> All characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz and the Hetalia franchise.
> 
> (not Beta'd)


End file.
